Three Minutes to Ignition
by Yxonomei
Summary: GaaNaru, yaoi, mature content. Helping a friend has never been so awkward... or so hot!


**Warnings:** Slash/Yaoi, het (of the _oiroke no jutsu_ kind, so can that really be called het?), pretty much PWP

**Pairings:** Gaara/Naruto

**Rating:** R

**Disclaimer:** Owned by Kishimoto Masashi, et al.

**Summary:** Helping out a friend has never been so awkward—or so hot!

A/N: Be forewarned—this is a peculiar child of a peculiar brain. Whether the reader may find anything worthy of approbation, the author cannot say—except that zie hopes the reader will show enough human respect and dignity to refrain from sacrificing zir upon the alter of the reader's indignation. Thank you most kindly for your time and for, if you may be so inclined, a memento of your visit in the form of a review. The author is, as always, the humble and pitiable servant of your entertainment.

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::Three Minutes to Ignition::

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He sets the timer with steady, steady fingers. Three minutes. He can do this. The skin on his face burns. It's nothing, just a thing between friends. Just three minutes. 

Bringing his hand together, he forms the seals and focuses his chakra. A tug, a pull and a sensation he's always thought of as being like coated in warm honey. _Oiroke no jutsu_!

This is the updated, refined version of his old classic; now with real life sensation and reactions! Huzzah.

The timer click-click-clicks as it winds down. He scratches at the angle of his jaw nervously and grins. "Go ahead."

Squeak, squeak go the floorboards beneath his friend's otherwise silent feet. He trains his eyes on the pregnant, wind-swollen curtains as the first touch burns across his shoulder. His hands clench into fists as cool fingers slide cautiously down over his clavicle and then to the generous curve of his _henge_'s left breast. Maybe he should have used his old technique, the one that doesn't also fool his own senses, making him think he really does have breasts and other girly parts—making the sensation of a calloused thumb dragging across the bud of a nipple that much more intense.

He shudders, swallows hard around a plug of saliva, and squeezes his eyes into crescents in order to keep them from closing entirely.

"Did that hurt?" Cool, clinical voice, only not entirely what with the concern filtering through. Unsure. Hesitant. Almost imperceptibly breathless? He doesn't dare turn his head to see if there's any sort of expression on Gaara's face.

"It's fine. It's nothing."

Click-click-click.

Children outside scream and laugh; a baby cries itself hoarse; a young couple argues. The curtains go flat as the wind dies outside, letting the musty, faintly rancid smell of the old building well up through the worn floorboards and patched walls—and he never really notices the odor of place until he has others over.

The cool hand closes over the whole breast, or as much as it can hold, strong fingers cupping the weight of it as the sand-worn palm presses gently upwards and a thumb slides over the rounded top. Little gods, can his face get any hotter? It's not your body. It's not your body. You're not a girl, Uzumaki.

Maybe he should wash those curtains. They used to be white, he thinks, but now they're kind of a yellowing gray. Do people wash curtains?

Click-click-click.

Gentle pressure and release, pressure and release, thumbnail carefully scrapping against the tender flesh of the aureole, over the perked nipple. He concentrates on breathing normally, on ignoring the peculiar liquid feel between his thighs, the strange sensation of an inverted penis. He's perfected this form for covert missions. Even in a tight spot, even if the opponent has a _kekkai genkai_ that involves vision, he'll never be found out to be anything but a female. Whatever happens to this body doesn't matter, because he isn't a woman: it's just an illusion that only he can break.

He ignores the increasingly erratic cadence of their breaths and the scent of his own body that rises with the noon heat, the animal and earth odor of his companion, the strong, elegant hand exploring and mapping the contours of his false body. The bedroom curtains rustle with restless gusts and he clenches his hands tightly, flexes his bare toes against the knotted orange and brown rug under him.

"May I…? Lower?"

The sun crawls out from behind a cloud and a startlingly bright lance of light pierces the room. Dust motes cavort through it, spinning in and out, up and down, white-silver specks of light. He should… He should clean… yeah, or something.

"Go ahead."

Definitely clean. Yes. Change the bedspread—those persistent fingers pour down over his abdomen, dip briefly into his navel, and then glide down to tease gently about the fleshy feminine divide between his _henge_'s thighs—his thoughts short-circuit for a moment. It takes all his will to keep from grabbing Gaara's wrist and yanking that hand away. Muscles strain in stillness. Fingernails dig angry crescents into palms. He breathes. Breathes. Glares at the mismatched roofs just visible between the fluttering halves of the curtains. Breathes.

Gaara's middle finger pushes in deeper, parting him, opening his false body to the sticky summer air. Sweat gathers at his hairline, beneath his arms, salty and pungent.

Click-click-click.

Nerve endings fire. Bang. Bang. Bang. Naruto twitches, his knees suddenly feel strangely weak, as the nail of Gaara's finger grazes something hidden there. The touch becomes more deliberate, firmer, and he sways forward into it. This isn't your body, Uzumaki! Don't let it get to you.

But his body is already reacting, fooled by the fine chakra threads connecting his real body to the illusion's.

Click-click-click.

Inside. Pushing deeper.

And he has to grab hold of Gaara's shoulders to brace himself against the feel of it.

"Are you all right?"

Naruto nods jerkily and squeezes his eyes if only to keep from doing the same with his thighs. An urge to trap the hand there, to demand more, shudders through him, but he can't, because what they're doing isn't about that—isn't about Naruto at all. He's doing this for Gaara, because Gaara has questions, sensitive ones, and he trusting Naruto to help him find the answers.

"Ah!" Short, sharp exclamation—hardly more than an audible breath—but it sinks color fully into Naruto's cheeks. He didn't just… just make _that_ sound, did he? But that finger is so, so deep and another is pressing in along with it—and is this how a woman's body reacts? Such a slick, liquid pleasure spilling up along his sensitive nerve endings. Something is building, molten and achingly sweet.

He's going to… to do something. Just a little… little more.

The timer rips open the tension. Gaara's hands pull away reluctantly. Then it's just Naruto and his transformation and the swelling need that pulses, hot and furious, between his thighs. If he drops the illusion, will _this_ be translated into a physical response by his male body? Little gods, and Gaara will _see_.

Hold on, Uzumaki, just calm down. Deep breaths. Oh, and turn off the timer.

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End

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A/N: So what, exactly, is Naruto helping Gaara out with? Well, the author leaves that the imagination of zir esteemed readers.

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End file.
